Bright Lights of the Cesspool Will Guide You Home
by Emerald Kitten
Summary: Merle Dixon knew the score, hell everyone with even a lick of sense knew what was what. Waste of time, sending him out to fetch two more pigs for the slaughter. That's all these kids were, numbers in a game where the odds weren't ever in their favour.
1. Chapter 1

This was bullshit, plain and simple. Any of the over-dressed, self-obsessed dancing monkeys buzzing 'round District 1 could have handled this assignment but oh no, Merle had to stick his hand up and get saddled with the job. Riding on this goddamn rocket, leaving the food and the booze of the Capital for some fuck-ass district that'd only ever produced one victor in its entire, miserable history. What was the point in 12 even bothering with the whole draw two names out of a hat act anyway? Didn't matter whose heads were on the chopping block, the pair of poor fucks that got chosen weren't gonna be crowned the victor, not in this story.

Only way they were getting out of that arena was in a body bag, pure and simple.

He knew the score, shit everyone with even a lick of sense knew what was what. Waste of time, sending him out to fetch two more pigs for the slaughter. That's all these kids were, numbers in a game where the odds weren't ever in their favour.

The only time the odds worked for you was went some other sucker had their name in the draw a shitload more than you did.

Merle grunted, watching the countryside flash past as the train sped along the tracks and further towards District Shithole. Sometimes he couldn't even remember why he'd volunteered for this gig; leading a pair of kids on a first-class trip straight to Hell. Everyone had their role to play in all this outlandish production though…that was just the price you paid for living in the great nation of Panem. At least it weren't Merle's own ass on the line out there. He'd served his time, entering his name in the draw each year 'til he aged out. His brother Daryl played by the same rules and he made it to eighteen, thankfully without ever having to set foot in a Games arena.

That was a damn-near miracle; him and Daryl getting off scot-free from the macabre lottery where a winning ticket weren't a luck to be celebrated. Now it was up to another batch of snot-nosed brats to take up the mantle, heed the call masquerading as patriotism and die for their country.

The one bright spot was the sooner this shit got done, the sooner he could be back in the Capitol where he belonged. Merle couldn't wait to wrap his lips around a bottle of whiskey and bury his cock in a young, wet pussy only too willing to hook up with the best looking games escort in history. He chuckled, thinking back to the last sweet young body he'd had in his bed only days ago. Couldn't remember her name or what the hell she looked like, but he sure as shit remembered how good she felt when she was riding him. Of course, that had been before he boarded the Tribute Express for this shitty round-trip to Inbred County.

He snapped his fingers, the sharp sound echoing throughout the otherwise empty train compartment. Brenda! That'd been her name…or maybe Breendia? Breeta? Whatever it was, she'd been a demon in the sack and that was all Merle needed to know. He'd tried palming the girl off on Daryl afterwards but baby brother would have none of it. Merle Dixon did not do sloppy seconds but that didn't mean Darlena couldn't get in on the action while the getting was good.

His brother was the sweet one, but man, sometimes even Merle struggled believing they were blood. That boy didn't act a lick like the Dixon he was.

There was something just not right about that boy, turning down decent tail when she'd already earned the official Merle Dixon tried-and-tested seal of approval. Over the years Merle had put out all the stops trying to make a man out of Daryl but nothing worked. Seemed baby brother was hell-bent on dying with his precious virginity intact.

The escort snorted with derision. _Fuckin' pussy._

The girl had been up for it. Hell, she'd offered him the complete round-the-world tour. She'd even tried coaxing the brothers into a little three-way spin but Daryl was too much of a ball-less wonder to bite the carrot she was dangling right before his eyes.

Merle smirked, eyeing his reflection in the train window as the surrounding countryside whirled past in a mismatched flash of greens and browns. It dawned on him then just why he'd volunteered for this gig into No-where's Ville. The coveted role of escort did come with some fringe benefits; high-end pussy being numero uno. It was one of the perks of the job, along with riding in style, all the way to the top. This year was his first rodeo but that hadn't presented a problem; chicks were like bitches on heat when they heard you worked for the Games Committee. Those girls were ready, willing and able to please, no matter the demand. Every single one of them Merle had come across had stars in their eyes and ten types of quality shit flowing through their veins. District 1 had the best of everything: the best pussy, the best booze, and the best pharmaceuticals.

The Capitol was filled with blowhards, bullshit artists and low-life crooks. Assholes only too willing to crush another so they themselves would come out smelling like roses. Yes sir, Merle Dixon was right at home in that particular cesspool. Excess was the name of the game and Merle did not deny loving life's excesses. He couldn't wait to get this shit over with, get his ass back where it belonged and start reaping the benefits brought forth for shepherding the sacrificial pigs from 12.

He rubbed his hand through his short, neon-purple hair, savouring the short, sharp pain of nails scratching across his shorn scalp. Considering the destination, that small slither of discomfort was probably the most excitement he was going to experience for the next few days. The rest of his get-up was all flash and show – metallic fabric designed to catch the eye, loud patterns that refused to be ignored, the enormous, gleaming belt buckle that drew women's eyes straight to his most prominent attribute. Hell, if the view outside the train was anything to go these people would have never laid eyes on a man like him before. He'd bet those hicks had never seen purple neither. Merle wasn't that much of a fan of the ghastly color but women loved raking their nails through it when he was buried balls-deep inside whatever hole they'd opened up for him. That alone was good enough reason to keep dyeing it. That purple shit was worth its weight in gold as far as he was concerned.

The train decreased in speed, snapping the man back to the here and now. He watched with contempt as the green of the countryside slowly morphed into muted greys the closer 12 grew.

_Now, that shit right there's just damn depressing._

When the train finally pulled to a stop at the saddest excuse for a station he'd ever seen Merle stood and adjusted his jacket with a sharp tug, smoothing the fabric southward with both hands. He'd been sent as far from civilization as you could get but he'd still work the outfit. Man had to take pride in his appearance, even out here in the middle of nowhere. That shit was what got you laid, sticks or city-slickin'.

"Time to get this show on the road," he sniggered, stepping through the newly opened carriage door and out into the untamed yonder District 12 had to offer.

**A/U: Thank you for taking a chance and reading this. The idea for this fic came completely from a conversation on tumblr about what TWD characters would slot into THG and in which role. Of course, I couldn't help but picture Merle in Effie's place, ferrying around the tributes and being his usual, charming self in the process. The question is, who will be those tributes be? Tune in next chapter to find out!**

**P.S. This is dedicated to The Readers Muse, for without her vision I never would have pictured Merle in this role.**


	2. Chapter 2

"I VOLUNTEER AS TRIBUTE!"

Merle had barely managed to announce the unlucky female winner of the Hunger Games Lottery before a high pitched squeak sounded out across the town square, instantly changing the mild sons-of-bitches into the rowdiest bunch of fuckers he'd ever heard in his life. Those four words were all it took to light a fire under the ass of every man, woman and child previously content to stand silent like they'd had their tongues cut clean outta their heads.

Who'd have thought that all it took to get a rise outta these people was one of their own, shrieking like a damn banshee?

Merle's eyes moved over the large gathering, searching for the spark responsible igniting the crowd like a freshly struck match dropped in a vat of gasoline. Didn't take long to locate the guilty party, not when every head in the town square was turned in her direction.

She weren't the type to make men look twice but now thanks to her antics, the girlie had Merle's complete and undivided attention. She had dark hair. Curly, from what Merle could make out from his vantage point. Tiny thing too. If he hadn't of heard it with his own ears the escort would never have believed a little mouse like her capable of roaring loud as a lion. Why the hell would this girl stick her hand up for what was surely a one-way ticket to the Capitol? She had to know there weren't a chance in hell she'd make it out of the Arena.

Merle stepped to the side, making room on the already spacious platform. "Well step right this way, Sugar Tits. Ya chariot awaits!" he bellowed, sweeping his arm out theatrically as he moved.

The guards converged on the girl, surrounding her like starving dogs pouncing on an old bone. The Peacekeepers were good at what they did, Merle had to give them that. Those clowns were nothing more than braindead muscle hired to keep things nice and quiet by strongarming anyone who dared say boo against the Governor's status quo. Course, wasn't much muscle needed to control little Miss Tribute now being escorted his way.

That was fucking hilarious, worrying that little bit of a girl could possibly pose a threat to the security of the nation. The thought alone made him snort. The only threat that girl posed was to herself, volunteering to front up to the Games like she had.

_Crazy bitch. _

Merle's gaze swept over the chick as the group approached, taking in the outdated, dust-smeared shoes and the ill-fitting dress that'd looked like it'd been washed more times than he'd been laid in his life. Wasn't much of her to see body-wise; whatever curves she had were tucked away behind a shabby pale blue sweater that covered far too much skin for his liking.

Christ, they really did breed them homely out in the sticks.

If this chick thought she could get away with wearing that sort of bland, un-fashionable shit in the Capitol she was in for the shock of her life. Well, that wasn't quite true. Calling attention to your dowdy self during the culling ceremony would definitely trump any other event in ya life leading up to that point.

As soon as Tyreese and his band of glitter-clad fairies did their thing, Merle was swiping that fucking dress and sweater combo and having himself a little bonfire. It would be an act of mercy, ending that outfit before it could do any more damage to the ugly world they already called home.

The girl kept her head down as she approached, eyes trained on the dirt beneath her shoes like it was the most interesting thing she'd ever laid eyes on. Considering the location, dirt-watching was probably the only form of entertainment these people had that didn't involve making doe eyes at their own kin.

The brown hair he'd first clapped eyes on wasn't so much curly as it was a tangled heap surrounding her face. Merle shuddered, dreading the work needed to make this one halfway decent. As it was, she'd need a paper bag over her head so she didn't scare off the other tributes before she had a shot at killing them. For all he cared she could get twigs and leaves stuck in that rats nest when she was in the Games Arena but before she hit that black diamond she'd have to start off at the tamer bunny slopes of the Capitol, schmoozing her way into gaining sponsorship from some bleeding heart with pockets too deep for their own good. Only way to get those suckers to ante up any money was to make the contestants beautiful, desirable…take every trace of where they came from, scrub it away and make them look like another carbon-copy Capitol clone. Tyreese and his team were gonna need lighter fluid and a blow torch to get this girl even close to passable. Way she looked now, Merle wouldn't have thrown her spare change if she was begging in the street.

He watched, his gaze glued to the approaching girl as the Peacekeepers deposited her at the stairs leading up to the stage where he waited. Slowly she climbed the steps, keeping her head down as she moved. When Little Miss Tribute reached the platform she finally looked up, her baby blues locking on Merle as she moved to join him front and centre.

Merle Dixon had seen a lot of weird shit in his time. Hell, witnessing twenty-four kids being round-up then watching them fight to the death from the comfort of his own home while he had a smooth whiskey in one hand and a naked girl in the other ranked pretty high up there on the fucked-up scale of things but what the Games escort saw when he looked into the face of the volunteer blew all that shit right out of the water.

He'd expected tears, maybe fear. Regret was an obvious contender there. The one thing he hadn't expected to see when she looked at him was steely fire blazing out of her sockets. The determination behind that fiery glare was enough to land a lesser man flat on his ass; Merle was not a lesser man though. He could take anything anyone was fool enough to dish out at him and then come back for seconds.

The sight of that girl standing there, her eyes telling him to go fuck himself without the words needing to form on her lips caused a dry, amused cackle to escape from the purple-haired man.

Maybe this mouse weren't so meek after all.

This girl had balls. Dump as a post, signing up for her own slaughter, but you couldn't say she didn't have a brass set hiding under that ugly dress. He couldn't help but wonder what her deal was, volunteering for death like that. It had been years since anyone had been stupid enough to pull such a dumbass stunt and with good reason too. From the look of her, she was on the verge of aging out of this perverted show and dance show. How boring could shit get in this hole if chasing your own demise was a more viable option than staying alive and under the radar?

His eyes swept over her as she walked past, finally able to make out the less than ample rack the raggedy blue sweater partially disguised. He cocked his head, glimpsing the hint of a decent, rounded ass hiding under the floral number when a gust of wind plastered the fabric to her behind. That was a surprising development. The girl might actually have some potential when she was out of that shapeless potato sack.

The face, at least there was something he could work with once that sour-milk expression was scrubbed away. She was a looker at least, even with the attitude. Girl like her was probably top shelf out here in the sticks. Yes sir, he bet her brothers were just lining up to take a swing at that. She didn't compare with the preened and perfumed tail he'd seen strutting around the Capitol but there was something about this mouse that was impossible to ignore. Not enough to get Merle's engine running and certainly nothing like the painted peacocks that called the Capitol home but she was the best option he'd seen 12 offer since setting foot outside the train carriage.

"What's ya name, Sweetheart?" he asked, quickly covering the mic with his left hand.

She turned her head, fixing that death-stare on him once more. "My name is Carol. Call me Sweetheart again and I'll slit your throat."

Merle chuckled, pleasantly surprised yet again by the balls this girl had. A flicker of respect sprung to life within the escort. He could appreciate a woman that spoke her mind like that. This mouse was not the squeaking kind. She roared, loud and proud. She wasn't a lick like the other assholes that hailed from Hicksville.

Shit in 12 just got a whole lot more interesting.

**A/N: Thank you for reading. I hope you enjoyed Carol volunteering :)**


	3. Chapter 3

The ride back to the Capitol was just plain uncomfortable, no other way to describe it. The second kid who Merle had drawn out of the bowl, Patrick, was barely old enough to make the passing grade for the Games. He was a pathetic son-of-a-bitch; face-full of glasses and lucky if he weighed a buck soaking wet. Not the sort of kid built to withstand the harsh rigours of Panem's sick brand of reality television. Four-eyes had no chance of walking out of the arena alive. He was too young, too green, and too quiet. Not the sneaky kind of quiet neither; he was the hiding behind momma's skirt kind of chicken-shit. A kid that age wouldn't have a chance, even if he'd have been a Career Tribute groomed since birth for battle. The rules of the game demanded youngsters, but Patrick was one player that weren't gonna move very far ahead on the board.

Just another pawn sacrificed in a sick, twisted game of murder. It'd be a miracle if the kid made it through day one.

Once the selection process was over, the next stop on the Hicksville tour was Victor's Village. 12's only winner and sole inhabitant of the miserable ghost town established himself as an asshole from the get go. Arrogant, cunning fucker with shifty eyes and a stick wedged so far up his ass you'd have thought he was a damn puppet. Considering the whispers Merle had heard about just what a victor's life was life after surviving the arena, a puppet was exactly what the winners were conditioned to become. The cat called himself Rick Grimes. Didn't matter what his name was, those two words did nothing to cover the stench of crazy wafting off his skin. There was something about the guy that wormed its way under Merle's hide. The escort didn't like many people, but for some reason he was just itching to slug Victor Rick square in the jaw. Maybe pop him a few times in the gut for good measure.

Merle Dixon always considered himself a generous man, and he was feeling particularly giving when it came to that there Rick the Dick. For the first time in his life, Merle found himself wishing a victor had died in the Arena instead of waltzing out of there with the first place blue ribbon.

Judging from the condescending tone Grimes assumed every time he spoke to Dixon, the feeling appeared to be mutual. That was good news for Merle; meant he didn't need to play nice for appearances sake. Shit sailed a lot smoother when he didn't have to waste time kissing the mayor of Crazy Town's ass.

Not having to shoot the breeze with Rick was one thing, but the silence coming from the third member of the newly formed quartet was damn near deafening.

The mouse with the brass balls, Carol, hadn't strung more than two words together since the metal doors of the train had whooshed shut behind her, severing the group inside the car from unwashed masses pressed out on the station platform. All she'd done besides look like someone pissed in her Cornflakes was to sit down and stare off out the window as the countryside whirled past in a green blur.

Twenty-four hours later and still not a damned peep outta her. If the escort hadn't heard her speak the day before, he'd had thought she was an Avox. Even without speech, she made for shitty company. The girl was a buzzkill, plain and simple. Volunteering was probably the most exciting thing she'd ever done her in life up to that point.

She kept this up, the girl was gonna get eaten alive when they finally made it to the Capitol.

By the time breakfast came around the next day, Merle had had enough of the mute routine. Patrick had worked up the balls to kiss up to Victor Rick, the two of them discussing strategy over plates of piping hot scrambled eggs. Not that talk of how best to kill a tween was the sort of thing the escort wanted to hear when he was trying to swallow his food, but it was better than the stone cold silence that had enveloped the carriage the day before.

Damned place had sounded like a morgue. Some signs of life were better than no life at all.

Merle glanced up from his second helping of eggs to see Carol walk into the car, the same stepped-in-dog-shit expression plastered across her face as the last time he'd clapped eyes on her the night before. Only difference between yesterday and today was that she'd found a pigsticker and was twirling it around her fingers like it was nothing more than a toy. The girl sat down at the table with Ricky-boy and Patrick, her eyes glued to the moving blade whizzing through the air.

"Jesus, mouse! Get that sour look off ya face." Merle clucked his tongue. He'd seen corpses with more life than this one. Stuck on this train for twenty-four hours now and that same scowl was pissing him off. "Try fuckin' smiling. This shit ain't as bad as ya makin' out." It was all lies of course. That girl had every reason to look miserable. There weren't nothing to celebrate about signing your own death warrant. Dumb bitch must have been suicidal to volunteer as tribute in the first place.

"I hate to admit it, but Merle's right, Carol," Rick added, side-eying the girl.

The escort grunted, swiftly giving the finger to the mouthy mentor. Merle Dixon did not need this or any other fuckin' asshole getting all up in his business.

Rick's gaze flickered towards the window seat containing the purple-haired man before re-directing his attention back to the mute mouse to his right. "The only chance you've got in this competition is to put on a front, make like you're happy to be there. We need to get you and Patrick sponsored. You don't play by their rules, you've got no chance of making it through alive."

The knuckleduster knife she'd been twirling around her fingers came crashing down suddenly, landing right between the outspread fingers of the yammering victor and driving down tip first into the polished wooden tabletop.

"Watch it, girl. That there shit's mahogany!" Merle hollered, angered the little bitch had dared scratch the furniture with that pigsticker. No way was he taking a trashed train back to the Capitol and explaining to his bosses that 12's pissy tribute had a tantrum and fucked up the décor on his watch.

Shit like that could get a man demoted from escort down to janitor in the blink of an eye.

"I'm not going to pretend I'm happy to be here…no-one wants to be here," Carol said, her tone even and low. The way she spoke reminded Merle of the fire he'd first glimpsed at the reaping ceremony. She turned her attention from Rick over to Merle. "I'm not going to smile because you tell me to and I don't give a shit about the damn table." She stood, pushing her chair back with enough force to topple the thing right over. Leaning down, Carol yanked the knife out of the polished wood and pointed it at the gaping mentor. "I don't need to kiss someone's ass to survive. Don't underestimate me, I'm going to make it out of this. Alive."

With that the skirt rose from the table and swished straight out of the carriage without a backward glance.

No doubt about it, there was more to Carol than Merle had first assumed. She was a crazy bitch, but crazy sure would make for good viewing come show time.

"That girl's got your number, don't she, Ricky?" The escort chuckled, turning his attention back to the plate of rapidly-cooling eggs still before him. "Knew there was something about 'er that I liked."

"Shut it, Merle," Rick cautioned, glaring across the carriage at the other man.

The hollow threat didn't mean jack. Merle didn't give two shits about what came out of Rick the Dick's mouth, that asshole was nothing. Didn't even register, despite being in desperate need of a good ass-kicking. Now, looked like Merle would have to take a ticket if he wanted to get in on that. Carol clearly didn't want to have shit to do with bats-in-the-belfry Grimes.

_Yes sir, that mouse was something else. _

Looked like meek, quiet Carol might fit right in to the cesspool waiting at the end of the train line after all. If it weren't against the rules, Merle would bet his last credit on that girl walking out of the arena as the newest victor of the Hunger Games. Finally, there was a tribute headed in there that weren't just another sacrificial lamb heading to slaughter.

One thing was certain. Ain't no way the citizens of Panem had ever seen a show like what Carol was planning on delivering.

**A/N: Thanks for reading. As you can see, Rick is the past victor here, mainly because I could see him doing everything in his power to survive the Games if he was ushered into that arena. Don't get me wrong, I have nothing against Rick. Haymitch had his drinking problem, but I wanted the mentor here to have his own issues, hence why Rick with his questionable mental state won the role, so to speak. Carol may be young, but she still can call Rick out on his bullshit. Also, I wanted to include a few key lines of dialogue here (no surprises which ones!).**


End file.
